THE  1  [BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  [FORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


f .   J  ' 
^    /  '  . 


f- 


7  r  > 

' 


, 


DEVOTIONAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  HUMOROUS. 


BY  GEO.  WHITE. 


CHICAGO: 

MOSES  WARREN,  103  STATE  STREET. 
1878. 


COPYRIGHT. 

1878. 
BY  R.  G.  WHITE. 


PAGE. 

FOR  THY  SAKE,  5 

LOVE  OF  GOD,      -  -       7 

THY  WILL  BE  DONE,  9 

FAITH,       -  -      12 

WHEREFORE  FOR  THE  COMING  DAY,  14 

TRUST  HIM  ALTOGETHER,  -      i? 

STAR  OF  FAITH,  19 

MOTHER,  -      21 

THE  RIVER,     -  24 

THE  OTHER  SIDE,  -      26 

WAITING  FOR  ME,       -  29 

BY- AND  BY,  •      31 

DAWNING,        -  33 

SHELTERED,  •     35 

GALILEE,  37 

MERCY,      -  •     39 
SYMPATHY,      -                                                                        •           41 

HEBREW  CAPTIVES,          -  44 


762888 


4  Contents. 

IT  is  WELL,  47 

SATAN'S  POCKETBOOK,  -                                                         -     49 

SEQUEL  TO  SATAN'S  POCKETBOOK,  -                       64 

POLLY  HONE,        -  -     75 

HUMAN  SYMPATHY,    -  87 

CIRCUMSTANCE  vs.  PROVIDENCE,  -     94 

GRACE  AND  MAY,       -  97 

IDA,  -      99 

THE  SNOW-STORM,  106 

I  WISH,     -  -    109 

WOMAN'S  RIGHTS,       -  112 

THE  WORLD  IN  ANTITHESIS,  -    115 

MEN  AND  WOMEN,     -  119 

SONG  OF  THE  WIND,  -                                                         -    121 

SUNSHINE,       -  123 

ANGELS'  VISITS,  •    125 

GUARDIAN  ANGELS,    -  127 

SONNET,     -  -                       -    129 

DEFERRED,      -  13° 

LOVE,    '  -    I32 

COLOR,  133 


For  Chy  Sake. 


DUTY  stood  at  the  door, 
Sternly  compelling 
Something  that  oft  before 

I'd  done,  rebelling; 
Seemed  it,  of  all  I  know, 

Menial  and  lowly; 
"Lord,  should  I  stoop  so  low 
When  Thou  art  holy? 

I  love  the  sunny  sheen 
Where  Thou  hast  led  me; 

Love  I  the  pastures  green, 
Where  Thou  hast  fed  me." 

Just  then  a  pleading  word 
Made  my  weak  hand  shake; 

And  a  low  voice  I  heard  — 
"Do  it  for  my  sake." 


Home  Ballads. 

"  Long  have  I  suffered  loss, 

Bearing  this  trial; 
Carried  this  heavy  cross 

In  self-denial; 
Toiled  up  this  arduous  way, 

Barren  and  dreary; 
Lord,  I  would  fain  obey, 

But  I  am  weary!" 

"I  bore  the  cross  for  thee 

Up  Calvary's  mountain; 
Prayed  in  Gethsemane, 

By  Kedron's  fountain; 
And  need  I  urge  thee  still  ? 

Do  it  for  My  sake." 
"I  yield,  dear  Lord;    I  will 
Do  all  for  Thy  sake." 


Loue  of  $06. 


OVE  of  God,  so  full,  divine - 
It  is  nearer, 
It  is  dearer 

Far  than  thine. 

Love  of  God,  be  more  to  me 
Than  all  other  — 
Sister,  brother  — 
E'er  could  be! 

Love  of  God,  fill  all  my  heart; 
Never,  never, 
From  me  sever, 
s.Or  depart! 

Love  of  God,  abide  with  me! 
I  surrender 
Every  tender 
Chord  to  thee. 


Home  Ballads. 

Love  of  Jesus,  make  me  whole; 
Move  most  sweetly, 
And  completely, 
All  my  soul! 

Love  of  Christ,  my  being  nerve, 
From  inertion 
To  exertion, 
Thee  to  serve! 

Love  of  God,  endure  alway; 
Ne'er  grow  older, 
Dimmer,  colder 
Than  today! 


Chy  roil  be  Done, 


ERD!  I  would  bow  with  Thee 
In  dark  Gethsemane, 
Praying  alone. 

Thou,  who  didst  bear  for  me 
My  load  of  agony 
In  dark  Gethsemane, 
Thy  will  be  done! 


Bring  my  petition  near 
Into  Thy  heart  and  ear, 

O  holy  One! 

Pain  darts  across  my  way; 
Thick  darkness  hides  the  day; 
Yet,  Lord,  I  still  would  pray, 

Thy  will  be  done! 


io  Home  Ballads. 

Lord!  I  would  go  with  Thee 
Up  to  mount  Calvary, 

Bearing  the  cross; 
Bearing  the  grief  and  shame 
Of  sundered  friendship's  name, 
And  the  world's  scoffs  and  blame 

Counting  but  dross  — 

Would  linger  near  the  tree 
Where  Jesus  died  for  me  — 

Died  for  his  own: 
The  Father  hides  His  face, 
Darkness  comes  on  apace, 
Heaven  frowns;   for  in  disgrace 

He  dies  alone. 

Down  to  the  sepulchre, 
Lord!  I  would  follow  her 

Who  loved  Thee  well; 
There,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Hear  the  sweet  Mary  say, 
"Who'll  roll  the  stone  away?" 

Angels  can  tell. 


Thy  Will  be  Done.  II 

"Not  here!"     The  tidings  flew; 
Who  died  for  me  and  you, 

Death  could  not  hold; 
Lo !  "  He  is  risen  "  today, 
Hear  the  glad  angels  say, 
Go  bear  the  news  away  — 

The  news  untold. 

And  so  my  guilt  is  not; 
This  is  the  price  that  bought 

Pardon  for  me; 
This  is  the  price  that  brings 
All  good  and  precious  things, 
On  Faith's  exultant  wings, 

Glad  soul,  to  thee! 


Faith. 


FAITH  is  on  the  mountain-top; 
High  above  the  clouds  she  stands, 
On  the  Rock,  and  looking  up, 

Hymning  with  the  angel  bands 
That  surround  the  throne  of  God, 
Brightening  His  bright  abode. 

Lightnings  play  beneath  her  feet, 
Thunders  tremble  through  the  air, 

Storms  descend  and  torrents  meet; 
Naught  can  hurt  or  harm  her  there; 

On  the  Rock  she  firmly  stands, 

Hymning  with  the  angel  bands. 

Though  in  rags  she  walks  the  streets, 

Though  her  couch  the  cold,  damp  ground, 

Though  no  kindly  voice  doth  greet, 
She  hath  all  things  and  abounds; 


Faith.  13 

She  an  heir  of  God  and  heaven  — 
Crowns  and  thrones  to  her  are  given. 

And  when  oft  the  unseen  Hand 

Leads  her  to  the  valley  dim  — 
Lions  chained,  and  devils,  stand  — 

Safely  through  she  follows  Him; 
Through  the  shadows  dark  and  gray, 
Faith  discerns  the  narrow  way. 

When  upon  the  raging  sea, 

Winds  adverse  and  baffled  skill, 
Jesus  sleeps;    but  waking,  He 

Bids  the  winds  and  waves  be  still: 
Gazing  upward,  still  she  stands, 
Singing  with  the  angel  bands. 

When  the  human  faints  and  fades, 

And  the  mortal  meets  decay, 
Faith  escapes  these  narrow  glades, 

Soars  to  ope  the  gates  of  day; 
Mounting  upward,  still  she  flies 
Home  to  God,  when  dying  dies. 


therefore  for  the  looming  Day. 


T  T    THEREFORE,  for  the  coming  day, 
V  V      Care  and  trouble  borrow? 

Do  thy  little  work  today, 
Trust  Him  for  the  morrow; 

Eat  whate'er  He  gives  to  eat, 

Trust  Him  for  tomorrow's  meat. 

See  thy  Father's  granary 

Filled  to  overflowing! 
Jesus  holds  the  magic  key, 

Tenderly  bestowing 
As  He  willeth.     Ask  Him,  then; 
He  will  honored  be  of  men. 

What  though  weariness  and  pain 

Hold  thy  hand  and  waking, 
The  unwelcome  day  again 

Through  the  darkness  breaking? 


Wherefore  for  the   Coming  Day.  15 

Trust  Him  though  no  work  'be  done, 
Trust  at  morn  and  set  of  sun. 

See  the  lilies  of  the  plain, 

Toiling  not,  nor  spinning, 
Knowing  neither  loss  nor  gain, 

Neither  care's  beginning! 
Never  lady,  in  her  ease, 
Was  arrayed  like  one  of  these. 

See  the  blithe  birds  of  the  air, 

Sowing  not,  nor  reaping, 
Knowing  neither  toil  nor  care  — 

Flying,  singing,  sleeping  — 
Waking,  praising  God!  why  then 
Are  they  better  fed  than  men? 

They  do  all  they  have  to  do, 

All  that  God  has  given; 
But  they  murmur  not,  as  you, 

Child  and  heir  of  Heaven  j 
Going  where  His  kind  hand  leads, 
So  He  warms  and  clothes  and  feeds. 


1 6  Home  Ballads. 

Why  so  slow  to  learn  of  them, 
Of  the  birds  and  flowers? 

Why  so  loth  to  trust  in  Him, 
In  life's  darksome  hours; 

We  belie  what  we  profess, 

Loving  little,  trusting  less. 


Crust  Him  Altogether. 

THROUGH  foul  or  pleasant  weather, 
Whatever  may  befall, 
O,  trust  Him  altogether, 

Or  trust  Him  not  at  all! 
For  He  is  fully  able 

To  meet  thy  soul's  great  need, 
To  furnish  well  thy  table, 
And  all  thy  hungry  feed. 

He  giveth  not  by  measure, 

Or  grudgingly,  or  small; 
E'en  to  thy  faith  the  treasure 

Shall  be  proportioned  all. 
O,  then,  in  stormy  weather, 

Whatever  may  befall, 
Trust  in  Him  altogether, 

Or  trust  Him  not  at  all! 
What  though  the  shadows  lengthen, 

And  cover  all  the  ground; 

2 


1 8  Home  Ballads. 

And  thy  forebodings  strengthen, 

As,  gazing  all  around, 
Thou  viewest  the  ancient  places, 

Where  Hope  has  built  high  towers, 
And  over  all  are  traces 

Of  sorrow's  busy  hours? 

Fear  not!  fear  not!     He  loves  thee, 

And  to  His  loving  breast, 
O  child  of  God!  He  holds  thee, 

And  there  thou  mayest  rest. 
E'en  if  thou  fail,  He  loves  thee, 

The  clouds  will  break  at  length; 
The  shades  are  sent  to  prove  thee, 

To  try  thy  faith  and  strength! 

And  if  thou  fail  not,  glory 

And  joy  shall  end  thy  days; 
Through  Jesus'  strength  thou'st  conquered, 

To  Him  shall  be  the  praise. 
Then,  in  all  stormy  weather, 

Whatever  may  befall, 
O  trust  Him  altogether, 

Or  trust  Him  not  at  all! 


Star  of  Faith. 


J^T^WAS  a  lonely  waif 
JL      Upon  the  sea  of  life, 

Floating  upon  the  tide, 
Tossing  amid  the  strife 

Of  the  angry,  foaming  billows, 
With  fear  and  danger  rife. 

Borne  upon  the  waves, 
Darkness  shrouds  the  sky, 

While  fearful  wind  and  storm 
Obey  the  mandate  high — 

It  quails  at  the  awful  thunder, 
Whose  lightnings  round  it  fly. 

Now  the  eye  is  fixed 

Upon  a  lone  bright  star; 

Its  light  through  darkness  gleams 
Over  the  waves  afar. 


2O  Home  Ballads. 

It  is  of  heaven  the  token, 

Whose  bright  door  seems  ajar. 

Rest,  oh,  troubled  heart; 

List  its  whisperings! 
'T  will  strength  to  thee  impart, 

'Twill  hope  and  courage  bring, 
To  gain  a  victory  mighty, 

Under  a  Savior  King. 

Safe  'twill  guide  thee  o'er 
Life's  dark,  troubled  sea, 

Till  moored  on  heaven's  shore, 
Thy  own  frail  bark  shall  be  — 

The  gift  of  the  dear,  kind  Savior, 
Sweet  star  of  Faith  to  thee. 


Bother. 

OTHE  weary  days  of  waiting 
On  the  borders  of  the  river! 
Days  of  shadow  and  of  sadness, 
Days  of  sunshine  and  of  gladness, 
On  the  heights,  where  past  and  present 
Mingle  with  the  great  hereafter. 

Thinking,  thinking  —  knitting,  knitting, 
Little  blocks  of  patchwork  fitting, 
In  her  old  armchair  a-sitting. 

She's  aweary  and  awaiting  — 
Weary  with  a  life  of  labor, 
Weary  with  a  life  of  trial  — 
Feels  her  own  life-work  is  ended; 
Loving  much  the  loving  Savior, 
Longs  to  be  forever  with  Him; 
Wonders  why  the  summons  tarries. 


22  Home  Ballads. 

April  with  her  crystal  showers, 
Summer  with  her  fruits  and  flowers, 
Autumn  with  his  golden  bowers, 
Winter  with  his  busy  hours  — 
Years  roll  by,  and  still  she  ever 
Hears  the  murmur  of  the  river, 
Sees  its  wavelets  gleam  and  glisten, 
Drops  her  work  to  look  and  listen: 
One  by  one  they  're  passing  over, 
.  Still  for  her  arrives  no  summons; 

But  her  pains  are  growing  sharper, 
And  her  face  is  growing  paler, 
And  the  wrinkles  something  deeper; 
Thinking,  knitting  —  thinking,  knitting; 
Little  blocks  of  patchwork  fitting; 
In  her  rocking-chair  still  sitting: 

Till  one  day,  when  gentle  showers 
Fell  upon  earth's  budding  bowers, 
Came  a  soft  and  gentle  calling, 
Like  an  angel  voice  at  even  — 
All  so  still,  we  heard  unheeding  — 


Mother.  23 

And  her  eyes  grew  brighter,  brighter, 
And  her  brow  paled  whiter,  whiter — 
Whiter  than  the  couch  she  lay  on  — 
Till  a  strange,  mysterious  glory 
Filled  the  room  and  us  with  wonder. 

Three  long  months  in  pain  she  lay  there, 
And  ofttimes  she  talked  with  angels — 
Often  with  the  blessed  Jesus  — 
Longing,  longing  —  waiting,  waiting; 
Not  a  whit  her  pain  abating; 

But  one  eve,  when  twilight  mingled 
With  the  growing  shades  of  darkness, 
Silently  and  soft  and  welcome 
Came  the  last  and  final  summons. 
Heaven's  fragrance  wafted  earthward, 
Light  from  thence  illumed  earth's  darkness; 
Earth  and  heaven  were  close  together: 
Then  the  Savior  threw  His  mantle 
Softly  over  her,  and  bare  her 
Safely  to  the  realms  of  glory. 


IThe  Bluer. 


OVER  the  murmuring  river, 
The  loved  ones  are  singing, 
Their  melody  ringing   ' 
Forever  and  ever. 

Over  the  mystical  river, 
Each  knoweth  the  other; 
The  infant,  the  mother, 

Death  cannot  dissever. 

Over  the  phantom  river, 
Their  pleasures  are  real; 
They  grasp  the  ideal, 

And  hold  it  forever. 

Over  the  weeping  river, 
No  tear  of  regretting, 
No  sighing  nor  fretting, 

Disturb  them,  forever. 


The  River. 

Over  the  sleeping  river, 

The  heart's  dearest  treasures, 
The  soul's  sweetest  pleasures, 

Are  waking  together. 

O,  blessed  immortals! 
That  river  of  terror, 
The  tomb  of  old  error, 

Is  only  heaven's  portals. 


25 


Ehe  Hither  Si&e. 


SHOULD  I  dread  to  cross  the  river, 
Flowing  darkly,  deep  and  wide? 
I  shall  see  the  Golden  City 

On  the  verdant  heaven-side: 
I  shall  see  the  holy  angels, 

Who  have  watched  my  pathway  o'er; 
They  are  waiting  to  convey  me 
Safely  to  the  other  shore. 

I  shall  see  my  long-lost  kindred, 

And  my  bahy-brother  meet  — 
Father,  mother,  sister,  hasting 

On  swift  wings,  their  own  to  greet  — 
Not  as  when  on  earth  we  parted, 

Bear  they  palms  of  victory; 
And  are  like  the  blessed  Jesus, 

Clothed  with  immortality. 


The   Other  Side.  27 

The  rejected  "  Man  of  Sorrows," 

There,  methinks,  I  then  shall  see: 
The  exalted,  glorious  Savior, 

Who  once  walked  in  Galilee  — 
Gaze  upon  the  loved  disciple, 

Paul,  and  Peter,  and  the  rest; 
Greet  the  Marys  and  the  Marthas, 

And  the  children  that  He  blest. 

I  shall  see  the  great  All-Father, 

Veiled  in  glory,  veiled  in  light  — 
Reverent  angels  bow  their  faces, 

Bow  their  joyous  faces  bright. 
And  the  music  there  resounding 

Mortal  ear  hath  never  heard; 
And  the  beauty  Him  surrounding 

Mortal  pulse  hath  never  stirred. 

I  shall  view  the  martyred  millions 
Who  have  died  by  sword  and  flame; 

And  shall  see  the  holy  prophets 
Who  have  loved  His  holy  name  — 


28  Home  Ballads. 

Gaze  with  awe  on  untold  numbers 
From  the  islands  of  the  sea, 

From  the  frozen  zones,  the  jungles, 
And  wild  dens  of  Africa. 

Should  I  dread  to  cross  the  river, 

Since  upon  the  other  shore 
All  my  treasures  dear  are  gathered, 

And  my  kindred  gone  before? 
In  His  house,  of  many  mansions, 

Jesus  hath  prepared  for  me 
A  dear  home:  I  know  'tis  waiting, 

And  its  light  I  long  to  see. 


Waiting  for  Be, 


IN  a  land  undimmed  by  shadows, 
In  a  home  where  all  is  fair, 
I  have  kindred  waiting  for  me  — 
Waiting  my  arrival  there. 

And  methinks  they  stand  together — 
Father,  mother,  gone  before, 

Sister,  brother,  kindred  spirits  — 
Waiting  on  the  other  shore. 

And  the  angels,  too,  are  kindred, 

Round  the  throne  of  God  they  stand; 

Christ,  my  elder  brother,  waiting 
Forv  me  in  His  own  fair  land. 

And  the  great  Supreme,  Eternal, 
Is  my  Father,  and  He  waits 

Patiently,  till  all  His  children 
Safe  arrive  at  heaven's  gates. 


30  Home  Ballads. 

How  the  cares  of  earth  grow  lighter, 
And  its  pain  seems  less  to  bear, 

When  I  feel  they're  waiting  for  me — 
Waiting  my  arrival  there. 


By-anb-By, 


T 


'HERE  is  a  hope, 

There  is  a  fear; 
It  may  be  far, 

It  may  be  near; 
But,  in  the  future,  waiting,  I 
Shall  Jesus  see;   yes,  by-and-by. 

Impatient  soul, 

And  longing  heart, 
Your  murmurs  cease, 
And  bear  your  part 
Of  pain  and  labor  on  life's  road, 
For  soon  'twill  lead  thee  to  thy  God; 

And  by-and-by 

Will  soon  be  now, 

And  God  shall  wipe 
Each  tear-stained  brow; 


32 


Home  Ballads. 

The  Lamb  shall  feed  them  from   His  throne- 
To  living  fountains  lead  His  own. 

O  verdant  fields! 

O  shining  shore! 
The  Lamb  of  God 

Spreads  wide  the  door. 
Ah,  Golden  City!  surely  I 
Shall  see  your  glories  by-and-by. 


Dauming. 

CHRISTIAN,  awake!  for  the  daystar  is  dawning 
That  heralds  the  morning; 
Far  over  the  sea  the  nations  are  waking, 
Their  fetters  are  breaking; 

They  struggle  in  vain  their  fetters  to  sunder, 

They  struggle  and  wonder; 
They  stretch  forth  their  hands  in  attitude  pleading, 

Oh,  rest  not  unheeding! 

Mosque  and  pogoda  are  tottering,  creaking, 

To  you  they  are  speaking; 
The  kingdom  of  satan  is  trembling,  falling, 

And  Jesus  is  calling. 

God  by  His  spirit  the  way  is  preparing, 

His  strong  arm  is  baring; 
God  in  His  providence  wide  doors  is  oping, 

And  will  ye  be  moping? 
3 


34 


Home  Ballads. 


Ye,  who  have  wealth,  who  have  intellect's  power, 

What,  think  of  the  hour? 
Crown  it  with  dutiful  grateful  behavior; 

Give  all  to  the  Savior. 

For  over  the  world  the  daystar  is   dawning 

That  heralds  the  morning, 
And  Jesus  shall  reign,  with  glad  acclamations, 

The  Light  of  all  nations! 


Sheltered. 

MORNING  dawned  serenely, 
Sunlight  danced  around; 
Birds  were  on  the  wing, 
Birds  were  caroling; 
Beautiful  and  seemly, 
Every  living  thing, 
Every  sight  and  sound! 

Such  life's  early  waking; 
But,  e're  noon  was  nigh, 
Distant  muttering, 
Loud  threats  uttering — 
Storm  and  thunder  breaking 
O'er  me  on  swift  wing — 
Shelter  none  had  I. 

Through  the  tempest  dreary, 
Sped  a  welcome  guest; 


36  Home  Ballads. 

Love,  upon  the  wing, 
Unto  me  did  sing: 
Come  to  me,  ye  weary, 
All  your  burdens  bring; 
I  will  give  you  rest! 

Refuge  I  have  found  me 

From  the  stormy  blast — 

Lo!  extended  wide 

Jesus'  arms!  I  hide; 

Love  and  Peace  surround  me, 

I  will  here  abide 

Till  life's  storms  are  past. 


$alilee. 

WATCHFUL  angels  hover  round, 
O'er  the  heights  of  Galilee; 
And  the  wondering  stars  look  down, 
Where  the  Savior  bends  the  knee. 
Burdened  with  the  guilt  and  scorn 

Of  the  world,  alone,  He  there 
Kneels,  until  the  first  faint  dawn 
Of  the  morn,  in  fervent  prayer. 

The  disciples  are  away 

On  the  raging  sea  below; 
Winds  adverse,  and  in  dismay 

"Toiling  in,  they  toiling  row;" — 
Hope  and  joy  their  bosoms  thrill: 

Jesus  comes!  He  comes!  and  hark! 
As  He  utters,  "Peace,  be  still," 

At  the  port  they  moor  their  bark. 


38  Home  Ballads. 

Lone  disciple  on  life's  sea, 

Frightened  mariner!  His  love 
Watcheth  now,  in  heaven,  o'er  thee; 

Jesus  prays  for  you  above. 
Though  the  waves  around  thee  roll, 

Fear  and  doubt  thy  bosom  fill, 
See!  He  cometh  to  thy  soul, 

On  the  waves,  with  "Peace,  be  still." 


Jftercy. 


WHO,  who  will  bear  these  to  fallen  man- 
A  ruined,  stubborn  race? 
The  price  of  blood  my  Son  hath  shed — 
Mercy  with  Truth  and  Grace. 

The  spirit  came  —  the  spirit  of  God, 

With  gifts  for  one  and  all, 
Hands  full  of  treasures  rich  and  free, 

Many  and  great  and  small; 

And  softly  whispers  in  human  hearts, 
"Ask  and  ye  shall  receive;" 
Ye  need  not  hunger,  need  not  thirst, 
Ye  need  not  mourn  and  grieve: 

Here's  Mercy  for  all,  both  great  and  small; 

Repent  and  turn  to  God  — 
A  balm  to  heal  the  wound  you  feel, 

Beneath  His  angry  rod. 


4° 


Home  Ballads. 

And  Mercy  still  stands  with  open  hands, 

Still  waiting  to  bestow 
Her  gifts  to  men,  the  moment  when 

They  will  to  have  it  so. 

Eye  hath  not  seen,  and  ear  hath  not  heard, 

Nor  heart  conceived,  the  bliss 
Laid  up  above  for  those  who  love 

And  follow  righteousness. 


Sympathy. 


THERE  is  a  sympathy 
Above  the  human; 
It  comes  alike  to  child, 
To  man  and  woman. 

To  high  and  low  alike, 
Where'er  there's  pining, 

Or  burden  to  be  borne, 
Or  sick  reclining. 

And  whoso'er  applies, 

However  lowly, 
Its  soothing  power  feels  — 

A  charm  most  holy. 

It  helps  us  bear  our  pain, 
Our  grief  and  sadness; 

To  sorrow  gives  again 
The  smile  of  gladness. 


42  Home  Ballads. 

And  those  who  stumble  so, 
Their  weakness  showing, 

It  yearns  to  raise  them  up, 
With  love  past  knowing. 

This  blessed  sympathy, 

So  freely  given, 
On  chords  of  love  comes  down 

From  God  in  heaven. 

And  in  all  human  hearts, 
Though  ill-assorted, 

This  godlike  impulse  dwells, 
But  blind,  distorted  — 

Still  burning  with  high  zeal, 
Nor  scarce  discerning 

The  true  from  false;  for  aye 
Cool  reason  spurning; 

Yet  blesses  she  the  world, 
Through  blind  endeavor. 

We'll  clasp  her  to  our  hearts, 
For  aye,  forever, 


Sympathy. 

And  when  the  hot  tear  starts, 
We  pine  and  languish  — 

We  look  to  God  above 
To  sooth  our  anguish. 


43 


Hebrew  Captiues. 


BY  Euphrates  river,  flowing 
Soft  through  Babylonia's  street, 
Sit  a  crowd  of  weary  wanderers, 
Sick  of  heart  and  sore  of  feet. 

All  the  way  from  Palestina, 

From  their  kindred  and  their  home, 
Driven  by  Chaldean  masters, 

Faint  and  weary  they  have  come. 

On  the  willows  by  the  rivers 

Hang  their  harps,  from  whose  accord 
Rang  the  praises  of  Jehovah, 

Only  God  and  mighty  Lord. 

Mount  Moriah's  walls  and  temple, 
Fair  Mount  Zion's  sacred  keep, 

And  Siloam's  silver  waters, 

Haunt  their  memory  —  they  weep. 


Hebrew  Captives.  45 

Pitiless,  the  proud  foe  taunts  them, 

Heeding  not  their  tears  and  wrongs: 
"Sing  us  one  of  David's  measures, 
Sing  us  one  of  Zion's  songs." 

"  Can  we  sing  the  songs  of  Zion, 

Can  we  chant  Jehovah's  praise, 
Mid  the  jargon  and  the  discord 
Of  your  heathen  rites  and  ways? 

We  can  ne'er  forget  thee,  never, 

Never,  O  Jerusalem! 
Be  thy  memory  and  worship 

Dearer  far  than  diadem! 

Let  my  hand  forget  her  cunning, 
And  my  tongue  in  silence  cleave 

To  my  palate,  if  I  ever 

For  thy  downfall  cease  to  grieve." 

So  their  harps  hang  pendent,  silent, 
On  the  boughs  by  Babel's  streams; — 

One  sweet  hope,  Messiah's  coming, 
Through  the  distant  future  gleams. 


46  Home  Ballads. 

Israel,  had'st  thou  shunned,  forsaken 

Idols,  revelry  and  sin; 
Served  the  Lord  thy  God  —  Him  only, 

Oh,  this  never  need  have  been! 


3t  is 


TIME  wings  lightly,  Hope  is  high; 
Free  from  care  or  trial, 
Blest  are  they;  and  so  am  I  — 
Blest  in  self-denial. 

Life  is  pleasant,  life  is  sweet, 

Full  of  joy  and  beauty; 
Yet  is  my  reward  complete 

In  the  path  of  duty. 

Life  is  sunshine,  life  is  rest; 

Ease  surrounds  my  neighbor; 
Still  am  I  supremely  blest  — 

Blest  in  toil  and  labor. 

Plenty  crowns  another's  days, 

Free  from  want  or  losses; 
Yet  am  I,  in  all  my  ways, 

Blest  in  bearing  crosses. 


Home  Ballads. 

Though  I  weep  while  others  smile, 
Knowing  no  aggrievement; 

I  mourn  not,  being  the  while 
Blest  in  my  bereavement. 

One  great  love  encircles  man, 

Yesterday,  tomorrow; 
And  that  love  alike  I  scan, 

Both  in  joy  and  sorrow. 


Satan's  Pochetbooh. 


ROAMING  with  eager  thought  and  aim, 
Unto  an  unknown  land  I  came: 
'Twas  dark  and  wild  —  I  paused  to  look  — 
The  murky  air,  the  shivering  gloom 
Hung  o'er  the  valley  like  the  doom 
Of  banished  souls;  and  closely  by, 
Borne  sluggishly  and  silently, 
The  volume  of  a  sulphurous  brook. 

A  chain  of  mountains  dark  was  seen, 
Bounding  the  earth  and  Hell  between; 
And  many  of  their  peaks  towered  up 
So  high  one  could  not  see  their  top. 
This  awful  chain  of  mounts  was  called 
The  mountains  of  God's  wrath,  and  walled 
Th'  Infernal  Regions  in,  save  where 
I  stood;  a  narrow  opening  there 


50  Home  Ballads. 

Was  guarded  well  — 

This  gate  of  Hell  — 
By  the  dark  image  of  Despair. 
With  eyes  of  fire  and  tongue  of  hate, 
Prime  minister  of  Doom  he  sate; 
Yet  chained  so  close  he  could  not  go 
But  little  way  from  Hell,  although 
He  guarded  well  th'  Infernal  gate. 

Beyond  the  mountains  of  God's  wrath, 
Which  walled  th'  Infernal  Regions  in, 
Outstretched  a  landscape  fair,  which  hath 
Been  singed  and  scorched  by  pain  and  sin; 
This  country  fair  is  called  the  earth, 
Outspreading  wide  a  vast,  vast  plain, 
Heaven's  sunshine  falling  on  it  — 
Heaven's  dew  and  Heaven's  rain; 
And  gazing  mute,  I  heard,  methought, 
Discordant  notes  of  music  brought 
Upon  the  wings  of  moving  air; 
And  listening,  I  heard,  I  know, 
The  notes  of  joy  and  wail  of  woe 
Which  mingle  there. 


Satan's  Pocketbook.  51 

THE    EARTH. 

A  climate  where  they  weep  and  sing, 

And  hearts  grow  colder,  warmer, 
With  more  of  winter  than  of  spring, 
And  more  of  fall  than  summer. 

Where  spectral  death  gloats  after  life, 

And  storm  the  sunshine  follows; 
Contentment  sweet  abides  with  strife, 

And  famine  plenty  swallows. 

A  region  where  the  good  and  bad 

Grow  side  by  side  together; 
Walk  hand  in  hand,  the  gay  and  sad, 

Through  foul  or  pleasant  weather. 

Where  broods  the  raven's  sable  wing 

O'er  love's  enchanted  bower; 
Where  lurks  the  serpent's  fatal  sting, 

Hidden  beneath  the  flower. 

A  curious  spot  where  night  and  morn 

By  turns  devour  each  other, 
Where  patience  is  of  sorrow  born 

To  overcome  her  mother. 


52  Home  Ballads. 

Lost  spirits,  'scaped  from  prisons  deep, 

Beneath  where  they  were  lying; 
.    Work  mischief  with  God's  careless  sheep, 
And  lure  with  hope  the  dying. 

Where  prayer  can  drive  the  deel  away; 

Where  Pain  abides  with  Pleasure, 
Where  Good  and  Evil  strive  alway 

Our  hearts  to  rule  and  measure. 

Where  angels  weep,  o'er  fallen  man, 
Their  tears  of  love  and  pity; 

God's  eyes,  unseen,  man's  actions  scan, 
From  His  Eternal  City. 

The  air  was  hot,  the  brooklet  bad 

Was  flowing  earthward,  and  it  had 

Its  scource  in  Hell.     Yet  round  and  round 

It  zigzag  coursed  until  it  found, 

Or  stole,  its  way  through  Hellgate. 

From  Hellgate  'tis  Intemperance 

Flows  onward  through  earth,  and  thence — 

A  circuit  wide  and  strange  to  tell  — 

Pours  in  the  other  side  of  Hell. 


Satan's  Pocketbook.  53 

Alas!  this  stream  of  death  and  sin 
Appeared  to  flow  both  out  and  in! 
The  under  waters,  narrow,  deep,    ' 
With  insidious  silence  creep 
Over  the  unsuspecting  world! 
But  on  its  rippling  surface  gleams 
Delusion,  and  all  fair  it  seems, 
As  round  and  round  it  curled. 

Backward  lowered  a  grizzly  cloud, 

Hovering  o'er  the  dark  abyss, 

A  cloud  of  sulphurous  smoke;  and  loud 

The  devils  mutter,  serpents  hiss  — 

Fearful  jargon,  horrid  cursing, 

Loud  blasphemings  seething,  bursting, 

Trembling  through  the  turbid  air, 

From  vengeful  spirits  dwelling  there; 

And  lightning's  blaze  and  polar  night 

Commingle  with  contending  might. 

Rolling,  bellowing  thunders  sound 
'Neath  my  feet,  and  shake  the  ground; 
Their  voice  is  heard  above  the  din 
Of  demons  murmuring:  hard  within  — 


54  Home  Ballads. 

Within  a  horrid  gulf,  down,  down, 
Where  ne'er  a  bottom  hath  been  found. 

The  prisoned  hissing  of  hell-fire, 

Outbursting  with  a  sudden  ire, 

Showers  adown  o'er  all  the  plain 

Like  an  ill-omened,  blood-red  rain, 

The  ashes  of  impure  desire, 

Flying  upon  the  wings  of  fire; 

Some  sparks  flew  earthward,  and  they  came 

Unto  the  brook  of  sulphurous  name, 

And  lighted  on  it;  through  the  night 

The  passion  fires  gleamed  lurid  light, 

And  sparks  became 

A  quenchless  flame, 
And  war  and  anguish  from  below  — 
Terror,  disaster,  fear  and  woe, 

And  famine,  desolation,  pain, 

Quickly  spread  over  all  the  plain. 

Some  sparks  touched  buds  which  ne'er  again 

Essayed  to  put  their  beauties  forth 

Upon  the  borders  of  the  earth; 

But  unto  these  'twas  surely  given 


Satan's  Pocketbook.  55 

To  bud  again  and  bloom  in  heaven. 
Again,  fire,  smoke  and  soot  flew  out, 
Diffusing  terror  all  about; 
And  from  the  pit,  on  all  around, 
Were  ashes  strewn,  and  on  the  ground. 

Dreadful  eruptions!  mortal  fear 

• 
Embraced  me,  as  I  lingered  here; 

For  o'er  my  head  the  mass  sailed  forth 
That  lighted  on  and  scorched  the  earth. 
It  stayed  at  last;  and  moving  fast, 
I  sought  to  'scape  this  awful  place; 
And,  musing  much,  I  knew  at  last 
'Twas  Earth  and  Hell,  the  middle  space. 

Upon  the  margin  of  the  brook, 

And  near  those  mountains  dark  and  high, 

Hastening  past,  I  paused  to  look 

At  something,  lost  there,  hard  and  dry; 

I  seized  it,  in  my  waistcoat  tight 

Demurely  placed  it,  out  of  sight; 

And  saw,  upon  the  sand  and  soot, 

Prints  of  Apollyon's  cloven  foot; 

And  numerous  marks  there  were  in  sight, 


56  Home  Ballads. 

As  though  there'd  been  a  recent  fight  — 
He  had  just  waged  a  desperate  war 
For  some  poor  soul  he'd  bargained  for. 

At  last  I  reached  a  quiet  spot 
Upon  Earth's  bosom,  broad  and  fair, 
And,  sitting  down  to  rest  and  muse 
Upon  my  strange  adventure  there, 
I  thought  upon  "the  something  lost" 
I  found  upon  the  verge  of  Fate; 
And  drew  it  from  my  waistcoat  forth, 
And  looked  it  o'er  as  there  I  sate  — 
And  sudden  horrors  thrilled  my  veins; 
I  dropped  it,  fled,  then  turned  to  look, 
When  there,  upon  the  grass  and  soot, 
Lay  Satan's  private  Pocketbook. 

O,  horror  upon  horrors!  now, 
A  pretty  scrape  you've  got  into; 

For  devils  old,  and  devils  young, 
En  masse,  will  soon  be  after  you! 

Why  did  I  ever  leave  the  Earth, 

In  thought  to  canvass  worlds  unknown- 


Satan's  Pocketbook. 

That  blessed,  miserable  place, 

With  thorns  and  roses  overgrown? 

But  here  I  am,  a  helpless  wight, 

Target  of  Chance,  and  sport  of  Fate! 

O,  fly  thee  to  thy  quiet  home! 
A  pris'ner,  I;  too  late,  too  late! 

For  I  have  trespassed,  trespassed  deep, 
Upon  forbidden  ground,  alone; 

I  cannot  laugh,  I  cannot  weep  — 
My  heart  is  like  a  block  of  stone. 

The  cunning  chief  of  misery 

Is  lurking  near  me,  all  unseen; 
He  will  not  lose  his  property 

Without  one  desperate  grab,  I  ween. 
Woe,  woe  to  me!  for  all  of  life, 

Of  love  and  hope  are  lost  to  me! 
No,  no!  I'll  give  "the  deel  his  own'" 

O  God!  thy  worm  appeals  to  Thee. 

After  a  while,  as  I  grew  calm, 
I  took  it  up,  nor  felt  alarm; 
And  slowly,  without  fear  or  hate, 


58  Home  Ballads. 

Proceeded  to  investigate; 

A  still,  small  voice  within  me  calmed 

And  bade  me  to  unravel  all 

The  schemes  of  Satan,  to  ensnare 

Unwary  ones  within  his  thrall. 

THE    POCKETBOOK. 

A  curious  thing!  the  outer  sides, 
Of  adamant,  could  well  abide 
The  fury  of  hell-fire.     A  bone, 
Mixed  with  a  certain  kind  of  stone, 
Inflammable,  the  clasp  made  close, 
Till,  from  a  drunkard's  veins  let  loose, 
Blood  touched  the  spring;  wide  ope  it  flew, 
With  noise  and  crash;  when  to  my  view 
Appeared  the  contents,  lying  in: 
Made  of  a  pale  and  haggard  skin 
The  linings  were;  and  diamonds  rare, 
And  precious  things,  and  jewels  fair, 
And  many  a  price  in.  scrip  and  gold, 
Of  fools,  who  e'en  themselves  had  sold 
For  pleasure,  to  the  deel  for  wine, 
For  honor,  or  a  name  to  shine 


Satan's  Pocketbook.  59 

On  Fame's  high  dome.    When  these  were  past  — 
The  price,  I'll  have  your  soul  at  last. 

Still  fumbling  within,  I  sought 
And  came  to  one  whose  facts  were  wrought 
In  fiery  lines,  on  parchment  dark 
As  midnight,  without  moon  or  stars, 
When  naught  Earth's  quiet  dreaming  mars, 
But  soft  repose  her  slumbers  mark. 
•This  deed  malign  I  leave  in  shade; 
I  cannot  trace  it  undismayed. 
Terror  withstood  me  as  I  mused, 
And  trembling  shook  the  hand  1  used. 
All  hastily  I  hurried  past 
The  horrid  details,  and  the  last 
I  fain  would  find;  but  infinite 
Their  number  seemed,  and  dark  as  night. 
Hatred  of  sin  and  sinful  things 
Thrilled  through  my  soul,  as  Satan  sings, 
For  here  laid  open  to  my  view 
The  hellish  schemes  that  millions  slew. 
The  almighty  dollar,  it  was  plain, 
Had  millions  upon  millions  slain; 


60  Home  Ballads. 

And  many  who  were  void  of  sense 
Were  snared  and  taken  by  "five  cents." 
And  one  whose  tiny  little  soul 
Was  taken  by  a  part  or  whole 
Of  one  round  cent,  was  detailed  there; 
And  pennies,  pennies  everywhere, 
And  cots  and  palaces  and  towers, 
And  lands,  dominions,  thrones  and  powers, 
And  ships,  and  stocks,  and  merchandise, 
Were  bartered  for  the  awful  price 
Of  human  souls.. 

'Tis  strange,  surprising  strange,  but  so 

He  claimed  dominion  long  ago 

Of  the  duped  Earth  and  all  within; 

Then  sought  a  traffic  to  begin 

With  those  he  duped  and  caused  to  sin. 

He'd  fought  with  heaven,  and,  vanquished  there, 

Retreated  backward,  downward,  where 

He  and  his  minions  people  space; 

But  spirits  know  no  bound  of  place  — 

And  near  to  Earth,  too  near,  alas! 

To  Earth,  from  thence,  in  freedom  pass. 


Satan's  Pocketbook.  61 

'Twas  thus  he  sought  to  circumvent 
His  late  discomfiture,  and  sent 
His  minions  forth  with  title-deeds 
Of  lands  and  houses,  names  and  creeds. 

Still  searching,  wonders  more  I  found, 
Reclining  there  upon  the  ground  — 
Wonders  of  dark,  malignant  schemes,  • 
Surpassing  diabolic  dreams 
Of  thought  malign,  and  devilish  plan, 
To  snare  and  conquer  listless  man  — 
Heaven's  pet — for  in  his  form  and  mien 
The  image  of  his  God  was  seen. 

I  trembling  sat  in  terror,  pain,  .   [brain; 

While  thought  chased  thought  through  my  dazed 

A  loud  and  sudden  crashing  heard, 

Like  the  collision  of  two  worlds, 

Through  space  careering,  met  at  last — 

The  less  to  atoms  flies,  and  fast 

The  greater  moves  in  grandeur  past. 

The  air  now  wore  the  murky  hue 
Of  regions  recently  in  view  — 


62  Home  Ballads. 

Of  regions,  I  had  lately  flown. 

A  dash  of  vivid  lightning  shone, 

And  thunder  burst  and  rolled  around, 

Then  bellowed  underneath  the  ground. 

The  tall  trees  swung  their  leafy  arms, 

And  bowed  low  down  their  stalwart  forms, 

But  did  not  break.     The  angry  sky 

Seemed  circling  to  earth,  and  high 

Of  clouds  sailed  fragments,  black  as  night, 

In  seeming  terror  and  affright, 

And  dust  and  soot  flew  all  about; 

Flew  in  and  out,  then  in  and  out, 

And  smoke  of  sulphur  smote  the  sight. 

But  harmlessly  it  passed,  and  calm 

Pervaded  all  around,  and  bright 

The  sun  poured  down  a  radiance  warm 

O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  mountain  height; 

The  soft  wind  breathed  a  murmured  prayer, 

The  echo  murmured  happiness; 

And  flowers  bloomed  in  beauty  there, 

And  stooped  the  soft,  green  earth  to  kiss. 

The  bird-song  burst  upon  the  ear, 


Satan's  Pocketbook. 

The  brooklet  paused  to  smile  and  hear. 
I  wondered  at  the  happy  change, 
So  sudden,  and  so  sweet,  and  strange; 
And  looked  upon  the  ground  in  vain, 
And  in  my  pocket,  in  my  brain; 
Ah!  Satan's  Pocketbook  had  gone; 
I  could  not  wish  it  back  again  — 
The  devil's  own  —  he'll  have  his  own! 


Sequel  to  Satan's  Pochetbooh. 


INTEMPERANCE,  swift-moving  flood, 
Freighted  with  evil,  void  of  good  — 
So  moved  me  with  its  ceaseless  gleam, 
Like  a  somnambulistic  dream, 
I  climbed  an  elevated  nook, 
Where  I  could  trace  this  winding  brook, 
To  take  of  it  another  look. 
The  distance  safe,  and  lofty  height, 
Offered  an  outlook,  out  of  sight; 
And  lo!  o'er  all  the  prospect  vast, 
A  strange,  ill-omened  light  was  cast, 
With  meaning  pregnant;  not  a  sound 
Rolled  through  the  air  or  jarred  the  ground. 
I  saw  a  noiseless  little  brook, 
With  unpretending  harmless  look, 
Flow  from  beneath  the  portals  wide 
That  shut  close  in  the  underside; 
'Twas  but  a  laughing  little  stream, 
Whose  merry  wavelets  dance  and  gleam, 


Sequel  to  Satan's  Pocketbook. 

Disclosing  naught  at  first  but  joy, 

To  tempt  with  merry  jokes  the  boy  — 

With  gentle,  soothing  motion  flows, 

With  siren  measures  lulling  those 

Who  launch  upon  this  death-bound  flood. 

Soon  overcome  with  strange  repose, 

Or  dazed  with  outward  show  of  good, 

Are  charmed  with  what  appeared  to  be 

A  form  of  loveliness  and  grace, 

In  whose  voluptuous,  ruddy  face 

Are  dimpled  smiles  and  jovial  mirth, 

Adorned  with  glittering  gems  of  Earth. 

Dancing  to  varied  minstrelsy, 

A  weird,  fantastic  light  is  cast 

Upon  the  present,  future,  past, 

Until  all  solid  things  are  made 

To  fall  behind,  and  rest  in  shade. 

The  fair  form  changes  now,  and  lo! 
Approaching  stealthily  and  slow, 
Borne  onward  iri  a  gilded  bark, 
Upon  the  waters  deep  and  dark, 

The  vender  of  a  subtle  thing 
5 


66  Home  Ballads. 

Which  makes  a  mortal  laugh  and  sing, 
And  dance  and  shout  e'en  in  death's  face, 
While  Misery  and  shamed  Disgrace 
Hang  round  the  bier — and  yet  for  more 
The  victim  wails;  his  honor,  store, 
His  reputation,  manhood,  strength, 
His  bread  and  meat,  his  soul  at  length, 
Are  bartered  to  the  deel  for  more. 

For,  just  behind  this  vender  foul, 
Another  stood  with  mince  and  scowl; 
'Twas  but  a  shape,  though  il^  or  fair, 
With  impious  import  hiding  there, 
And  in  his  hand,  with  close  device, 
He  firmly  held  concealed  "the  price;" 
And  cries,  "'Tis  naught."     As  on  they  go, 
The  brooklet  widens;  and  the  flow 
At  first  is  easy,  with  calm  mien 
Meanders  terraced  hills  between, 
Or  softly  creeps  through  valleys  green; 
But  carries,  with  its  eddies  fair, 
A  poisoned  breath,  a  poisoned  air, 
Which  smites  the  leaf  upon  the  trees, 


Sequel  to  Satan's  Pocketbook.  67 

And  floats  far  off  upon  the  breeze; 
It  blights  the  tender,  budding  bloom 
Of  gardens  green  with  polar  gloom; 
It  slays  the  grass,  it  slays  the  grain, 
It  stays  the  ever  welcome  rain. 

The  shapeless  shape,  holding  the  price, 
Sulks  frowningly,  touches  the  dice; 
The  trifling  price  to  any  one 
Looks  like  a  little  bit  of  fun. 
Delusion;   but  he  deftly  throws 
Chains  over  willing  dupes,  and  goes 
With  even  motion  swiftly  on,       ^ 
Until,  sun,  moon  and  stars  all  gone, 
The  soul  in  darkness  moans  and  quakes, 
And  e'en  this  feeble  body  shakes; 
And  the  dire  shape,  so  fair  at  first, 
Is  changed  to  something  dark,  accursed, 
A  horrid  thing  that,  day  and  night, 
Impels  him  on_;  'tis  Appetite. 
The  dark  form  rages,  foams  and  roars, 
While  near  a  dreadful  cataract  pours; 
A  voice  is  heard  in  accents  clear, 


68  Home  Ballads. 

"Beware,  beware,  destruction's  near!" 
A  lovely,  jeweled,  helping  hand 
Seems  dropping  from  the  better  land; 
It  beckons  to  him,  and  implores 

•  To  turn  and  live.     To  golden  shores 
The  hand  points,  bleeding;  oping  wide, 
Light  breaks  the  gloom  and  skims  the  tide, 
And  over  portals  deep,  inwrought, 
Was  "touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not." 
These  portals  led  to  temples  fair, 
Resting  like  jewels,  here  and  there, 
Upon  earth's  throbbing  breast;  and  lo! 
Many  for  refuge  there  did  go, 
And  found  the  safe  retreat  they  sought 
In  "touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not." 

But  'many  more  rush  heedless  on, 

'Till  manhood,  strength  and  hope  are  gone. 

The  prison  houses  are  rilled  full 

Of  these  poor  wretches,  bright  and  dull; 

Proud  talent  meets,  and  wealth  rests  by 

The  sunburnt  sons  of  poverty, 

While  hunger  and  consumption  pale 

List  mute  to  disappointment's  wail; 


Sequel  to  Satan's  Pocketbook.  69 

And  orphans'  groans, 

And  widows'  moans, 
Ambition's  broken  shrine,  despair, 
Anguish  and  terror,  mingle  there. 

Rolls  on  the  freighted  flood,  with  power 
Submerging  palace,  hut  and  tower; 

Tall  trees,  and  low, 

To  ruin  go; 

And  the  firm  rock, 

Which  bore  the  shock 
Of  wind  and  storm  for  many  years, 
Is  swept  away,  and  naught  appears 
But  helpless,  broken  fragments  —  e'en 
Revealing  what  they  might  have  been. 
As  round  and  round  its  waters  wind, 
It  had  whole  cities  undermined; 

Had  kings  uncrowned, 

And  thrones  borne  down; 
Deluged  many  a  castle  fair, 
So  grandly  reared  upon  the  air; 
Deluged  many  a  castle  strong, 
All  freighted  with  a  poet's  song; 


70  Home  Ballads. 

Deluged  many  a  castle  great, 
Where  a  blazoned  warrior  sate; 
And,  wheresoe'er  it  winds  about, 
Fair  homes  were  marred  or  blotted  out; 
And  many  cots  of  humble  mien, 
Or  noble  mansions,  have  been  seen, 
Wrecked  and  ruined,  floating  thence 
On  the  dark  stream,  Intemperance  — 
Broad  channel,  ever  bringing  in 
Victims  of  pleasure,  vice  and  sin! 
And  o'er  the  bound  of  hell  at  last, 
Its  volume  thundered  full  and  fast. 

And  as  they  pass  the  fearful  bourne 
From  whence  no  one  can  e'er  return, 
We  hear  their  cries,  we  hear  their  groans, 
We  hear  their  never-ending  moans; 
And,  as  they  hasten  on  apace, 
More  come  to  fill  their  vacant  place  — 
Borne  onward,  as  all  those  before, 
En  masse^  e'en  to  destruction's  door. 

» 

They  heeded  not  the  warning  voice, 
They  heeded  not  the  helping  hand: 


Sequel  to  Satan's  Pocketbook.  71 

One  bade  them  make  the  better  choice, 
One  pointed  to  the  better  land. 

And  oh,  the  ghostly  vision  dread! 
The  shape  ill-omened  stalks  ahead; 
That  shapeless  shape,  always  in  sight, 
The  fearful  thing  called  Appetite. 
The  eye  is  riveted  to  it; 
Will  has  no  power  to  rule,  or  sit 
Upon  her  ancient  throne,  but  lies 
In  mute  paralysis,  and  dies. 

The  lovely,  jeweled  hand  has  gone, 

The  day  is  ended,  light  has  flown; 

Now  darkness  reigns  supreme,  and  all 

Is  merged  in  midnight's  dismal  pall; 

But  through  the  blackness  backward  gleam 

Those  horrid  eyes  whose  glances  seem 

Like  charm  of  serpent;  and  no  light 

Of  cheering  token  breaks  the  night. 

Near,  nearer  still,  the  cataract  pours, 

And  from  beneath  loud  thunder  roars  — 

The  shape,  whose  eyes  haunt,  haunt  him  still, 

Comes  nearer;  with  a  horrid  thrill, 


Home  Ballads. 

Its  finger  ends  but  touch  his  brow  — 
He  writhes,  and  fain  would  die,  but  now 
Its  lips  upon  his  lips  are  pressed; 
While  on  his  eyes  its  eyeballs  rest; 
With  hand  to  hand,  and  frame  to  frame, 
They  breathe  as  one,  and  are  the  same. 
The  devil  has  him  now!     The  price 
Was  but  a  wicked,  shrewd  device, 
And  made  to  get  him  to  this  plight — 
A  cat's-paw  of  poor  Appetite. 
Thus  Appetite  bought  many  more 

Than  gold,  and  diamonds,  and  the  lore 

/ 
Of  ancient  sage,  or  heathen  myth 

Fixed  up  to  treat  the  season  with. 
But  over  all  Earthland  shone  bright 
Cities  of  refuge,  clean  and  white, 
With  temples  rising  to  the  sky, 
Imprinted  on  whose  portals  high, 
And  visible  in  every  spot, 
Was  "touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not." 

And  many  millions  more  are  near 
The  cataract;  some  devoid  of  fear — 


Sequel  to  Satan's  Pocketbook.  73 

So  stupefied  their  senses  are, 
They  see  no  danger,  near  or  far, 
While  just  ahead  the  torrent  roars, 
And  over  hell's  high  walls  it  pours; 

But  other  some,  more  millions  told, 

Know  all,  hear  all  and  all  behold, 

Of  danger  and  destruction  nigh; 

They  struggle  with  their  chains,  and  try 

With  might  and  main  the  spell  to  break; 

But  no,  with  senses  wide  awake, 

They  hasten  on,  for  Appetite 

Has  fangs  upon  them  close  and  tight. 

In  vain  they  struggle,  strive  in  vain, 
To  break  the  spell,  to  burst  the  chain; 
Cities  of  refuge  all  are  passed, 
The  helping  hand  is  gone  at  last; 
On  hurrying  to  their  dreaful  fate  — 
Poor  souls,  poor  souls!  it  is  too  late! 
You  would  not  heed  the  golden  hand, 
You  would  not  list  the  warning  voice: 
One  pointed  to  the  better  land, 
One  bade  you  make  the  better  choice; 


74  Home  Ballads. 

One  pointed  to  fair  cities  forth, 
Which  sit  like  jewels  on  the  earth, 
On  whose  high  portals,  deep  inwrought, 
Was  "touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not." 


Polly  Hone. 


o 


,NCE  an  old  crone 

Lived  all  alone; 
Her  name  was  simply  Polly  Hone. 


Her  sister  dead, 

Her  brother  led 

A  wandering  life.     She  never  wed. 

Her  neighbors  proud,     * 
She  thought,  aloud; 
Some  better  ones  to  find,  she  vowed; 

And  vainly  thought 
There  surely  ought 
Somewhere  to  be  a  better  spot. 

The  truth  to  own, 
Poor  'Polly  Hone 
Disliked  to  live  so  much  alone. 


76  Home  Ballads. 

So  one  day  she 
Resolved  to  be 
A  traveler,  and  the  world  to  see. 

Too  much,  of  late, 
She'd  heard  folks  prate 
Of  a  new  town  in  a  new  State. 

This  town  out  west, 
She  thought  it  best 
To  seek;   its  name  was  Cozynest. 

Said  she,  "The  keers, 
For  one  of  years, 
Have  many  breakdowns,  horrors,  fears. 

'Twill  give  me  time, 
And  be  sublime, 
To  go  by  Foot  &  Walker's  line." 

So,  firm  in  mind, 
New  scenes  to  find, 
She  looked  around,  and  felt  resigned. 

Then  leave  she  took 
Of  vale  and  brook, 
Of  quiet  home  —  a  cosy  nook; 


Polly  Hone.  77 

But,  when  set  out 
Upon  her  route, 
Found  many  things  to  whine  about: 

The  wind  was  cold, 
Her  garments  old, 
The  road  had  mud  and  mire  untold. 

Still,  fully  bent 
On  her  intent, 
She  traveled  on,  nor  did  relent. 

Day  after  day 
She  jogged  away, 
And  never  stopped  to  rest  or  pray, 

Till,  nearly  through 
Her  route  so  new, 
Tired  out,  she  knew  not  what  to  do; 

Her  appetite, 
As  well  it  might, 
Loud  clamoring  for  food  that  night; 

To  take  some  rest 
She  thought  it  best, 
Ere  she  arrived  at  Cozynest. 


78  Home  Ballads. 

A  farmhouse  lay 
Just  on  her  way, 
With  lawn  and  garden  green  and  gay; 

The  door  in  sight 
Seemed  to  invite, 
With  open  arms,  this  wayworn  wight. 

Admittance  sought, 

Just  as  she  ought, 

Her  rap  at  length  an  answer  brought. 

A  matron  came, 
(Her  much  I  blame) 
To  see  a  woman  old  and  lame, 

Whose  feet  were  sore, 
As  at  the  door 
With  staff  and  scrip  she  stood  before. 

"Please,  let  me  stay 

Tonight,  I  pray; 
To  Cozynest  I'm  on  my  way." 

"I  have  no  taste 

For  vagrants  —  haste; 
A  tavern  lies  beyond  the  waste;" 


Polly  Hone.  79 

And,  pointing  o'er 
A  cold,  bleak  moor, 
Upon  the  woman  closed  the  door 

Poor  Polly  Hone 
Stood  there  alone; 
Then  in  a  moment  more  had  gone, 

The  sun  was  low; 
The  wind  raved  so, 
She  must  needs  stop  to  pant  and  blow. 

The  setting  sun 
Had  now  begun 
To  warn  home  trav'lers,  one  by  one, 

But,  when  at  last 
The  day  had  past, 
Darkness  she  saw  approaching  fast. 

Cold  hung  the  night; 
The  stars  blinked  bright 
At  Polly  Hone  in  her  sad  plight 

Poor  Polly  Hone 
Would  almost  own 
She'd  rather  be  at  home  alone. 


80  Home  Ballads. 

At  last  a  light 
Appeared  in  sight, 
Cheerfully  shining  through  the  night. 

Expectant,  she 

Walked  eagerly, 
Longing  to  grasp  the  "is  to  be"; 

She  soon  drew  near 
To  a  small,  queer 
And  dingy-looking  house;   with  fear 

Her  knees  did  quake; 
She  trembling  spake 
To  one  who  stood  there,  half  awake 

And  half  asleep: 
"Pray,  do  you  keep 
A  tavern  here,  in  this  droll  heap?" 

"Yes,  ma'am;   I  do; 
And  good  fare,  too; 
And  room  enough  for  likes  o'  you." 

And  glad  was  she 
A  place  to  see, 
Though  poor,  where  yet  some  rest  might  be. 


Polly  Hone.  8 1 

A  supper  queer 
Was  served  her  here  — 
Potatoes,  cabbage,  bread  and  beer. 

When  past,  "a  bed 
I'd  like,"  she  said, 
"On  which  to  lay  my  weary  head." 

Then  she  was  led 
Unto  a  bed 
Of  straw;  and  she  was  mad,  she  said, 

And  made  a  vow 
She'd  "raise  a  row, 
Before  she'd  pay  'em,  anyhow." 

But  sleep  at  last 
Her  eyelids  fast 
Sealed  up,  and  bright  dreams  o'er  her  cast. 

Soon  morning  light 
Shone  clear  and  bright, 
And  woke  her  to  her  piteous  plight. 

Her  cloak,  anon, 
She  then  put  on, 
And,  e'er  they  knew  it,  she  had  gone. 


Home  Ballads. 

Soon  Cozynest, 
Away  out  west, 
Gleamed  on  her  sight — a  place  of  rest, 

No  steeple  there, 
The  house  of  prayer 
To  mark — nor  here,  nor  anywhere; 

And,  looking  round 
Awhile,  she  found 
Not  much  there  to  be  seen  but  ground. 

A  prairie  wide 
Stretched  on  one  side, 
On  th'  other  great  burr-oaks  abide; 

So  strange  and  new, 
She  stopped  to  view 
The  river  slowly  winding  through. 

Too  slow,  too  slow 
Its  waters  flow! 
No  pebbles  on  its  banks  so  low! 

And  then  at  last 
She  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  people  move  so  fast. 


Polly  Hone.  83 

The  houses  low, 
All  in  a  row  — 
Some  things  too  fast,  and  some  too  slow. 

At  length,  the  day 
Wearing  away, 
She  thought  to  find  a  place  to  stay  — 

"  Stop,  ye  ole  croon ; 
I'll  hev  yer,  soon; 
Ye've  bothered  me  from  morn  till  noon." 

And  looking  back, 

Close  on  her  track 

Her  landlord  came  with  all  his  pack. 

In  blank  dismay, 
She  could  not  say 
One  word;  said  he  "I  want  my  pay — 

"Twelve  shillings,  mum; 
Hand  over!   come, 

Or  the  police  'ill  give  ye  some." 

• 

Too  late,  too  late! 
The  magistrate 
Of  Cozynest  was  there  in  state. 


Home  Ballads. 

Ah,  well!  thought  she, 

I'll  pay  my  fee, 
Then  from  annoyance  I'll  be  free. 

The  fee  was  paid; 
Still  undismayed, 
She  mused  until  her  plan  was  laid. 

A  house  to  find, 
She  had  in  mind, 
Where  she  could  live  content,  resigned. 

But  such  hard  luck 
Had  killed  her  pluck  — 
Worried  her  brain;  and  there  she  stuck, 

Almost  distraught. 
At  length  she  thought, 
To  make  one  effort  more,  I  ought; 

And  so,  once  more, 
From  door  to  door, 

All  Cozynest  she  traversed  o'er. 
« 

It  did  befall 

No  house  at  all 
To  sell  or  rent,  nor  large,  nor  small. 


Polly  Hone.  85 

So  in  a  huff 
She  took  some  snuff, 
And  thought  she'd  seen  the  world  enough. 

The  homeward  track, 
With  staff  and  pack, 
She  took  again,  and  traveled  back. 

Once  home  again, 
She  thought  it  vain 
To  seek  to  flee  from  care  and  pain. 

And,  wiser  grown, 
She  lives  alone, 
Content  to  be  poor  Polly  Hone. 

She. sings  away, 
The  livelong  day; 
Now  list  to  what  her  song  doth  say: 

"Though  friends  have  flown, 

And  cares  have  grown, 
Be  wise  —  let  well  enough  alone; 

For  it  is  plain 
That,  all  in  vain, 
We  seek  for  sunshine  in  the  rain; 


86  Home  Ballads. 

But,  after  rain, 
We  look  again, 
And  sunshine  dances  o'er  the  plain. 

And  all  things  wait, 
At  Heaven's  Gate, 
For  pearls  that  never  come  too  late. 

But  on  the  wise, 
In  deep  disguise, 
They  fall  like  raindrops  from  the  skies. 

So,  after  rain, 
We  look  again, 
And  pearldrops  gleam  upon  the  plain." 


Human  Sympathy. 


ONCE,  on  a  certain  time, 
I  fell  to  dreaming; 
The  day  was  in  decline — 
A  twilight  seeming. 

When  in  the  dimness,  lo! 

A  great  crowd  hovered 
Upon  an  even  plain, 

Completely  covered. 

A  crowd  promiscuous, 
Of  all  sorts,  gathered: 

The  blind,  the  lame,  the  halt, 
The  old  and  withered. 

The  young,  the  rich,  the  poor, 
The  tall,  the  meagre; 

And  each  one  waiting  there, 
Expectant,  eager. 


88  Home  Ballads. 

And  each  a  burden  bore, 
Though  well  or  ailing — 

'Twas  large,  or  small,  as  each 
Could  bear  unfailing: 

When  suddenly  appeared 
A  light  most  holy; 

From  far  above  it  came, 
Descending  slowly, 

Till  when,  short  space  above 
The  crowd  it  hovered, 

One  wearing  human  form 
Could  be  discovered; 

A  form  of  lovely  mien, 
A  maiden  seeming, 

With  pity,  o'er  the  throng, 
Her  mild  eye  beaming. 

Poised  low  in  air,  above 
The  crowd  she  lingers; 

While  pity  issues  from 
Her  eyes,  her  fingers. 


Human  Sympathy. 

To  mitigate  life's  ills, 

Her  chief  concernment; 
While  on  her  brow  was  traced 
"Want  of  discernment." 

And  thus,  at  length,  she  spake, 

The  silence  breaking: 

"I  came  from  heaven  to  soothe 

And  cure  your  aching; 

Will  linger  here  awhile  — 
For  many  morrows; 

Then  come!  I  have  a  balm 
For  all  your  sorrows." 

A  millionaire  came  first  — 
At  which  I  wondered  — 

Who  in  a  recent  fire 

Had  lost  "five  hundred;" 

The  loss  he  seemed  to  feel 

Keenly,  intensely; 
The  sympathy  he  craved, 

He  got  immensely. 


Home  Ballads. 

An  old  man  next  advanced*, 
His  head  was  hoary; 

In  trembling  accents  he 
Told  his  sad  story. 

A  little  balm  he  got, 

His  grief  abating, 
And  then  was  thrust  aside 

For  others  waiting. 

A  maiden — pale  and  worn 
With  constant  tending 

Upon  a  mother  sick, 
And  slowly  bending 

Beneath  the  weight  of  years 
And  constant  ailing  — 

For  Human  Sympathy 
Came,  unavailing. 

A  lady,  sweet  and  sad, 
Beneath  her  hovered; 

There,  dressed  in  sable  garb, 
Her  grief  uncovered: 


Human  Sympathy. 

Two  lovely  infants  lay 

As  though  they  slumbered; 

They  died  while  yet  their  age 
In  months  was  numbered. 

A  manly  form  laid  low 

Beneath  the  willow; 
She'd  shared  with  him  his  cares, 

His  bread,  his  pillow. 

Into  her  heart  and  ear 

Comfort  distilling, 
Came  Sympathy,  her  own 

True  mission  filling. 

A  poor  man  next  appeared, 
With  reason  shattered; 

'Twas  plain  the  gutter  had 
His  clothes  bespattered; 

Yet  gentle  Sympathy 

But  one  look  gave  him; 

And  would  not  raise  her  soft, 
White  hand  to  save  him. 


92  Home  Ballads. 

A  lady,  on  whose  face 
Was  spread  her  trouble, 

Now  told  her  thrilling  tale: 
Her  corns  were  double; 

And,  sometimes  it  would  seem, 
Her  head  ached  badly; 

And  of  her  aches  and  pains 
She  murmured  sadly. 

A  generous  slice  she  got, 

If  I  saw  plainly, 
And  still  her  business  seemed 

To  murmur,  mainly. 

The  blind,  the  lame,  the  poor, 

All  helter-skelter, 
Next  clamored  on  the  stage 

For  food  and  shelter; 

Some  food  and  shelter  found; 

Some  but  a  meagre 
Award  of  sympathy, 

Altho'  so  eager; 


Human  Sympathy.  93 

And  some  got  kicks  and  cuffs, 

And  maledictions; 
I  wondered,  in  my  dream, 

At  these  distinctions. 

The  drunkard's  children  came 

To  gain  the  treasure; 
To  each  she  gave  a  small 

And  stinted  measure. 

The  orphans  next  applied  — 

And  there  were  many; 
To  some  she  gave  full  weight, 

To  some,  not  any. 

This  whole  transaction  was 

So  farce-like  seeming, 
I  groaned,  and  rubbed  my  eyes, 

And  woke  from  dreaming. 


Circumstance  us.  Proui&ence. 


CREATED  things  were  new; 
God,  in  his  grace,  made  Good, 
And  sat  her  in  her  place  — 
A  presence  fair  to  view. 
Then  Evil  came  out  from 
The  nothingness  of  space  — 
Admiring,  sought  to  wed, 
Persistent,  though  she  fled 
In  haste  his  hateful  form. 

At  last  she  came  to  earth; 
Wearied  she  lighted  there; 
Lusting,  he  followed  her, 
O'ercame  her  by  a  snare; 
Usurped  her  right  of  birth, 
And  marred  the  things  that  were, 

Of  Good  and  Evil  born 

Was  one,  named  Circumstance: 


Circumstance  vs.  Providence.  95 

She  lay  on  earth  forlorn; 

Men  came  and  called  her  chance. 

God  pitied  when  he  saw, 

And  gave  to  Circumstance. 

The  realms  of  Earth  —  not  Chance, 

Or  arbitrary  Law. 

One  came  and  died  for  man, 

One  bruised  Evil's  head; 

Evil  became  as  dead; 

His  doom  was  written  then. 

Of  Evil,  all  that  came 

Were  doomed — e'en  Circumstance; 

And  her  misnomer,  Chance, 

Was  known  no  more  by  name. 

Thence  towers  a  mystic  plan, 
Majestic,  broad  and  high; 
Its  arms  encircle  Earth, 
Its  head  is  in  the  sky; 
Law  is  the  outside  part, 
But  Law  is  not  the  heart; 
By  it  God  governs  still, 
Through  it  He  works  His  will, 
All  wise  and  good,  and  makes 


96  Home  Ballads. 

Law  rule  the  elements, 
And  nothing  jars  or  breaks. 
For  God  controls  the  springs 
That  work  such  wondrous  things 
To  human  sight  and  sense  — 
Its  name  is  Providence. 

Men  cannot  understand, 
It  is  so  broad  and  high; 
They  see  no  head  or  hand, 
And  so  the  whole  deny. 
Through  it  God  will  restore 
To  Good  her  rightful  sway; 
Evil  shall  be  no  more  — 
Like  night,  'twill  pass  away 
When  morn's  bright  rays  are  seen; 
And  Good  shall  be  Earth's  queen. 
Bide  patiently  and  wait, 
It  will  not  come  "too  late." 


iSrace 


SWEET  little  Grace,  with  her  winning  face, 
And  her  eyes  so  full  of  glee — 
Of  the  household  all,  both  great  and  small, 
The  pet  and  the  darling,  she. 

Poor  little  May  is  homely,  they  say, 
But  good,  and  gentle,  and  mild; 

She  blushes  that  she  was  born  to  be 
A  drunkard's  poor  little  child. 

Beautiful  Grace,  with  smiles  on  her  face, 
And  love  in  her  soft,  brown  eye, 

Runs  to  the  gate  to  frolic  and  wait, 
And  kiss  dear  papa  good-bye. 

Poor  little  May,  all  the  livelong  day, 

Murmurs,  nor  falters,  nor  lags; 
The  baby  she  lends,  the  stockings  mends, 

And  sews  up  the  carpet -rags. 
7 


Home  Ballads. 

Frolicsome  Grace  wears  curls,  with  a  trace 
Of  mirth  in  her  mouth  and  eye, 

She's  pictures  and  books,  a  doll  that  looks 
Like  a  fay,  and  dolls  that  cry. 

Pensively  May  sits  sewing  away, 

But  happy  enough  for  that; 
She  owns  no  toy,  but  gazes  with  joy 

At  the  pranks  of  her  small  cat. 

Happy  is  Grace;  she  has  a  large  place 
In  hearts  both  loving  and  true; 

She  hears  kind  words,  like  chirping  of  birds, 
And  words  of  good  counsel,  too. 

Pity  poor  May:    she  hears  all  the  day 
Discord,  and  jarring,  and  strife; 

No  kind  words  greet  with  melody  sweet 
The  dawn  of  her  frail  young  life. 

A  pitying  eye  looks  from  on  high  — 

That  pitying  name  is  Love; 
All,  all  is  well;  He  calls  her  to  dwell 

With  Him  and  angels  above. 


MARCH  winds  shake  the  window  pane, 
Chase  the  clouds  and  bear  the  rain; 
Pause,  and  their  commotion  cease, 
For  the  hour  fore-shadows  Peace. 

Lo!  the  setting  sun,  at  last, 
Hues  of  red  and  amber  cast 
O'er  the  clouds;  and  overhead 
Gleams  a  fair  fantastic  red  — 
Throws  a  gleam  of  promise  round, 
Over  tree,  and  roof,  and  ground, 
And  the  cottage  window  where 
Lay  a  mother,  pale  and  fair; 
Little  angel  baby  sweet, 
Sunshine  comes,  your  birth  to  greet; 
Wind  and  storm  their  tumult  cease, 
For  the  hour  is  one  of  Peace. 

Mother  looks  into  her  eyes, 
Opening  with  glad  surprise — 


ioo  Home  Ballads. 

Eyes  of  deep  and  mellow  blue — 
Reading  them  as  mothers  do; 
Joyfully  essayed  to  speak, 
Answering,  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

Little  golden  angel,  where 

Did  you  lose  your  wings  so  fair? 

Glad  am  I  they  dropped  today, 

So  you  cannot  fly  away; 

Now  you're  mine  to  have  and  keep, 

Mine  awake  and  mine  asleep; 

Babyhood  and  girlhood  mine, 

Mine  in  womanhood  to  shine  — 

Wondrous  beauty,  born  for  fame, 

Peerless  Ida  is  your  name. 

Ida  crowed,  and  smiled,  and  grew, 

Day  by  day,  as  babies  do; 

Tiny  hands  and  tiny  feet, 

Dimpled  cheeks,  and  lips  so  sweet; 

Light  brown  hair  with  tinge  of  red, 

Curled  in  cues  all  o'er  her  head; 

Wept,  and  slept,  and  dreamed,  and  smiled' 

Beautiful,  precocious  child. 


Ida.  IOI 

High  of  brow  and  pale  of  cheek, 
Mother  watched  from  week  to  week  — 
Woke  and  watched  both  night  and  day, 
Watched  her  sleep  and  watched  her  play; 
Soothed  her  infantile  distress  — 
Love  dispelling  weariness. 

But  the  autumn  time,  at  last, 
Over  earth  his  mantle  cast  — 
Gay  of  color,  cold  of  breath; 
Lo!  the  obvious  import  Death. 

Death!     But  oh!  he  loves  the  fair; 

Loves  the  pure  and  spotless,  rare; 

Loves  the  good,  and  loves  the  wise; 

Loves  the  ones  we  love  and  prize. 

Ida  died.     A  mother's  love 

Could  not  shield  her  baby  dove 

From  Death's  chilling  touch.     How  meek 

Mother's  love!  how  strong,  how  weak! 

Give  Death  all  he  asks,  'tis  vain 

To  remonstrate  in  your  pain. 

Ida  dead!    a  tiny  rose, 
Fallen  off  at  even's  close, 


Home  Ballads. 

Sweetly  yielded  up  her  breath, 
More  than  beautiful  in  death; 
Like  a  smitten  cherub  lay 
In  her  coffin,  cold  as  clay; 
Like  a  pure  and  precious  gem, 
Worn  in  seraph's  diadem, 
Falling  jarred,  bewildered,  chilled; 
So,  a  little  grave  was  filled. 

Friends  were  there  to  sympathize 
With  the  mother  —  with  surprise 
Saw  her  face  so  pale  and  white  — 
Then  laid  Ida  out  of  sight. 

Then  the  mother  softly  stepped, 
Stood  and  looked,  but  never  wept; 
How  her  purposes  were  crossed — 
Ida  dead  and  Ida  lost! 
All  was  gone,  the  world  a  blank! 
None  to  love  and  none  to  thank! 
All  her  plans  of  future  bliss 
Blown  to  atoms!  worse  than  this, 
Ida  in  some  dreadful  place, 
With  companions  vile  and  base! 


Ida.  103 

Dreams  of  terror  and  of  pain 
Fretted  her  disordered  brain; 
So  her  sisters  came  and  said, 
She  is  crazed,  or  out  of  head. 

Ida's  mother  silence  kept  — 
Pined  and  paled,  but  never  wept; 
Missed  the  burden  from  her  arms, 
Missed  her  winning  baby  charms, 
Missed  her  cunning,  artless  grace, 
Missed  her  little  dimpled  face: 
Tried  to  pray;   but  prayer  was  caught 
In  the  wings  of  roving  thought; 
And  oft  times  she  feared  the  Lord 
Had  forgotten  His  kind  word; 
Thought,  if  He  remembered  her, 
'Twas  with  hate  for  sins  that  were: 
Thus  we  judge  the  Almighty's  plan 
By  the  littleness  of  man. 

How  the  mother  longed  to  see 
Baby  as  she  used  to  be! 
Or  of  her  to  get  a  glance, 
In  a  dream  or  in  a  trance; 


104  Home  Ballads. 

Murmured,  prayed,  and  then  she  wept, 
Prayed  again,  and  softly  slept: 
Dreamed?  or  was  it  really  so? 
Answer,  mothers,  you  that  know. 
Lo!  a  radiant  form  divine, 
Being's  essence  full,  divine, 
Fount  of  love  and  Love's  own  Name, 
To  the  mother's  bedside  came; 
Presence  peerless!     Overawed 
Mother  lay,  for  It  was  God. 

In  His  loving  arms  He  bore 
Ida  as  she  was  before  — 
Ida  as  she  used  to  be; 
But  more  beautiful  was  she; 
Far  more  blessed,  sweet  and  fair 
Looked  she,  as  she  nestled  there. 
Mother  did  not  speak  or  stir, 
Or  attempt  to  get  at  her; 
Evermore  she  could  resign 
Her  to  Being  so  divine. 

Jesus  spake,  and  to  her  said: 
In  my  arms  your  babe  is  laid; 


Ida.  105 

I,  the  Shepherd  of  the  sheep, 
Do  your  tender  lambkin  keep  — 
Take  her  from  your  arms,  but  from 
Evil  that  would  swiftly  come; 
Take  her  from  your  sight,  to  raise 
You  to  higher  thoughts  and  ways; 
And  prevent  you  clinging  so 
To  the  perishing  below. 
Do  not  judge  Jehovah's  plan 
By  the  deeds  of  puny  man ; 
But  resign  her  to  My  love, 
And  your  lost  one  find  above; 
For  I  hold  your  baby,  blest, 
Safe  within  my  loving  breast; 
She  shall  always  here  remain, 
Free  from  sin,  secure  from  pain. 


IThe  Snow-Storm. 


A  CLOUD  of  snow,  one  cold  winter's  day, 
Wrapped  in  the  halo  of  sunset,  lay 
Nestling  dreamily  there  alone 
In  the  golden  light  where  the  sun  went  down, 
Till  stars  shone  out,  and  the  moon  rose  high 
Up  to  the  top  of  the  azure  sky. 

Then  it  crept  around,  till  close  in  among 
The  specks  of  light  where  the  pole-star  hung, 
And  slept  till  northern  lights  danced  so  high 
They  touched  the  moon  in  the  top  of  the  sky; 
Then  it  rolled  itself  up  in  a  sable  vest, 
And  dreamed  till  the  moon  had  gone  to  rest. 

At  last,  when  aurora's  finger-tips 
Touched  the  brow  of  the  eastern  hills, 
Silently  opening  eyes  and  lips, 
The  dome  above  with  her  mantle  fills; 
Then  did  the  waiting  snow-storm  espy 
The  chariot  of  storm-king  coming  nigh, 
So  they  join  hands,  and  away  they  fly. 


The  Snow- Storm.  107 

Far  over  the  hills  and  lofty  mounts, 

And  over  the  vales  and  frozen  founts, 

By  the  halls  of  the  rich,  and  cots  of  the  poor, 

They  piled  the  snow  up  high  at  each  door; 

Then  over  the  fields  and  gardens  fair, 

Over  a  little  grave,  cold  and  bare; 

Then  storm-king  paused,  and  his  soul  was  stirred, 

For  a  baby's  voice  from  the  grave  he  heard. 

"Moldering  deep  in  the  grave  I  sleep, 
And  mamma  weeps  as  the  cold  winds  creep 
Through  chinks  in  her  humble  cottage  door, 
While  the  cold  storm  wildly  surges  o'er. 
O,  beautiful  snow!    she  loved  me  well; 
And  you,  so  pure,  alone,  can  I  tell 
How  papa  came  home  so  crazed  one  night 
With  rum,  he  shut  out  ma  from  my  sight; 
And  I,  the  baby,  was  left  alone 
To  weep  or  sleep  on  the  cold  hearth-stone. 
He  then  sank  down  on  the  floor,  and  slept, 
And  I  to  my  papa's  side  close  crept, 
With  mamma  shut  out  in  the  cold,  cold  storm; 
I  lay  there  wondering,  still  and  warm  — 


io8  Home  Ballads. 

Too  still  and  warm,  for  something  close  press'd 
Over  my  head  and  over  my  breast: 
And  so  I  died;   for  papa  lay  on 
And  smothered  to  death  his  little  son. 
With  a  burning  tear  ma  buried  me  here, 
And  I  thought,  as  you  came  so  close  and  near, 
And  your  soft,  white  hand  so  gently  press'd, 
O,  beautiful  snow!  on  my  cold,  cold  breast, 
I'd  tell  it  to  you;    and  now  you  know, 
Beautiful,  beautiful,  cold,  white  snow!" 

Mournfully  sighing,  sadly  and  slow, 
The  cold  wind  warmed  into  murmurs  low; 
And  the  drifting  snow  above  the  main, 
Melting  to  tears,  descended  like  rain  — 
Wept  o'er  the  ignorant,  wise  and  witty, 
Wept  o'er  the  hamlet,  the  town  and  city, 
Wept  over  forest,  mountain  and  plain, 
Plentiful  showers  of  cold,  cold  rain; 
Then  ceased. 


3  TOsh. 


I    WISH  I  had  a  little  house, 
A  little  parlor  in  it; 
I  wish  I  had  a  pie  to  make, 
I'd  hasten  to  begin  it. 

I  wish  I  had  an  organ,  and 
An  everlasting  play-day; 

I  wish  I  had  a  silk  dress  on, 
Then  I  should  be  a  lady. 

I  wish  I  had  a  ship  at  sea, 
Loaded  with  silks  and  laces, 

Six  costly  shawls,  and  tapestry  — 
About  a  hundred  cases. 

I  wish 'I  had  a  bookcase  stout, 
Of  little  books  and  big  books; 

A  river  full  of  pike  and  trout, 
And  «  forty-'leven  "  fish-hooks. 


no  Home  Ballads. 


I  wish  I  had  a  shiny  day, 

Around  a  great,  big  mountain; 

I  wish  I  was  a  girl  at  play 
Beside  a  splashing  fountain. 

I  wish  I  had  a  somebody 
To  worry  and  to  tease  me; 

I  wish  I  had  a  bumble-bee, 
I'd  let  him  buzz  to  please  me. 

I  wish  I  had  ten  thousand  pounds, 
And  half  a  pound  of  candy; 

I  wish  I  had  a  small  greyhound, 
And  cat  to  fight  him,  handy. 

I  wish  I  had  a  ruby  lip, 

Like  two  red,  mellow  cherries; 

I  wish  I  had  two  eyes  to  look 
Just  like  two  huckleberries. 

I  wish  I  had  a  horse  and  shay, 

I'd  make  a  celebration, 
And  take  a  ride,  some  pleasant  day, 

Over  the  wide  creation. 


I  Wish. 


in 


I  wish  I  had  some  stout  wings  made; 

I'd  fly  up  to  the  moon,  and 
Investigate  its  light  and  shade, 

Some  pleasant  night  in  June;  and  — 

I  wish  I  had  a  telescope, 
To  sweep  the  constellations; 

I  wish  I  had  a  key  to  ope 
Some  strange  hallucinations. 

I  wish — I  wish  —  I  wish  —  I  wish  — 

I  wish  I  was  a  poet; 
I  wish  I  had  a  new  hat — I 

Would  go  somewhere  to  show  it. 


"Roman's  Bights. 


PLEASE  listen,  ye  croakers  and  praters! 
Who  gabble  of  women  and  Rights, 
As  though  we  were  made  to  hoe  'taters, 
Or  mix  in  political  fights. 

Your  way  through  the  crowd  you  can  elbow, 

You  delicate  lady,  to  vote; 
Your  dutiful  husband  remaining 

At  home,  "just  to  mend  up  his  coat." 

On  'lection  day  make  us  a  stump-speech, 
Make  money,  make  love,  and  flour; 

When  JefF  raises  Ned,  raise  an  army, 
And  fight  for  your  country  and  power. 

Or  shovel  your  way  to  the  stable, 

On  a  bright,  cold  wintry  day, 
To  put  on  the  harness  and  bridle, 

And  hitch  up  old  Bob  to  the  sleigh; 


Woman's  Rights.  113 

Ride  over  to  pretty  young  Maister's, 

And  ask  if  he  pleases  to  go 
A  sleighing,  this  beautiful  morning, 

Far  over  the  beautiful  snow. 

And  then,  if  he  deigns  to  say  "yes,  ma'am," 

You  boost  him  so  gracefully  in, 
The  buffalo  robes  tuck  about  him, 

Close  up  to  his  whiskers  and  chin. 

Scrape  off  all  the  snow  from  your  small  feet, 

And  get  in  the  other  side; 
Then  take  up  the  whip  and  the  bridle, 

And  so  swiftly  away  you  glide. 

O!  what  upon  earth  are  you  thinking 

And  a  driving  at,  all  your  lives? 
You  may  gather  bushels  of  honey, 

If  you  don't  tip  over  the  hives. 

Pray,  let  the  world  be  as  God  made  it; 

Let  the  masculines  still  be  men; 
Let  them  build  all  the  railroads  they  can, 

You  can  "boss"  as  to  where  and  when. 


Home  Ballads. 

Broad  fields  now  lie  open  before  you:- 
Home,  colleges,  clerkships  and  pen; 

Avail  you  of  all,  if  you  please  to, 
But,  oh!  don't  you  try  to  be  men. 


Che  Tftorlb  in  Antithesis. 


1r  I  ^  IS  a  good  and  a  bad  world, 

A  world  old  and  new; 
A  happy  and  sad  world, 
A  world  false  and  true. 

'Tis  a  large  and  a  small  world, 

A  silent  and  loud; 
A  heavy  and  light  world 

Of  sunshine  and  cloud. 

'Tis  a  slow  and  a  fast  world, 

'Tis  dark  and  'tis  light; 
It  is  mystical,  plain, 

'Tis  black  and  'tis  white. 

'Tis  a  wet  and  a  dry  world, 

Unlovely  and  fair; 
A  selfishly  just  world, 

A  common  and  rare. 


Ii6  Home  Ballads. 

'Tis  a  rich  and  a  poor  world, 

A  foolish  and  wise; 
A  noble  and  mean  world 

Of  plausible  lies. 

'Tis  a  bitter  and  sweet  world  — 

A  kiss  and  a  blow; 
A  noisy  and  still  world, 

A  friend  and  a  foe. 

'Tis  a  strange  and  a  queer  world; 

'Tis  haughty  and  meek; 
A  long  and  a  short  world;1 

'Tis  strong  and  'tis  weak. 

'Tis  a  tender  and  tough  world; 

'Tis  crooked  and  straight; 
A  pure  and  a  vile  world 

Of  love  and  of  hate. 

'Tis  a  jovial  arid  sad  world, 
'Tis  gay  and  'tis  grave; 

'Tis  sober  and  drunken, 
A  master  and  slave. 


The  World  in  Antithesis.  117 

'Tis  a  crazy  and  sane  world, 

'Tis  dirty  and  clean; 
'Tis  idle,  'tis  busy, 

'Tis  fat  and  'tis  lean. 

It  is  lavish  and  stingy, 

'Tis  hungry  and  full; 
A  hot  and  a  cold  world, 

A  lively  and  dull. 

'Tis  a  smooth  and  a  rough  world, 

'Tis  cruel  and  kind; 
'T  is  civilized,  savage, 

'Tis  rough  and  refined. 

'Tis  a  high  and  a  low  world, 

The  meanest  and  best; 
A  noisy  and  calm  world 

Of  labor  and  rest. 

'Tis  a  blest  and  a  curst  world, 
Thoughtful  and  thoughtless; 
A  right  and  a  wrong  world, 
Faulty  and  faultless. 


Ii8  Home  Ballads. 

'Tis  a  half  and  a  whole  world; 

Real  and  seeming, 
A  rested  and  tired  world, 

Doing  and  dreaming. 

'Tis  an  honored,  despised  world; 

It  walks  and  it  rides, 
It  crawls  and  it  flies  with 

The  winds  and  the  tides; 

And  it  goes  with  a  jingle 
By  water  and  steam; 

'Tis  made  up  of  pickles, 
And  candy,  and  cream. 

It  is  broad  at  the  front    and 

Contracted  behind; 
'T  is  genial,  friendly, 

'Tis  cold  and  unkind. 

'Tis  a  talkative,  dumb  world, 

Serious  and  vain; 
A  strangely  mixed-up  world 

Of  pleasure  and  pain. 


Jften  an&  Tftomen. 


A    LIFETIME  it  takes  you  men  to  get  rich, 
J_    \_  And,  when  you  get  rich,  you  die; — 
Better  spread  your  energies  doing  good, 
And  laying  up  stores  on  high. 

There  is  only  one  coin  that  is  current  above, 

One  Bank  that  will  never  fail; 
That  coin  you  can  get  upon  earth  —  'tis  Love, 

And  the  bank  is  beyond  the  vale. 

Ye  love  to  .gather  you  silver  and  gold, 

And  houses  and  lands  so  fair; 
What  loss,  should  the  water  and  fire  sweep  all, 

If  you  have  a  mansion  there? 

It  takes  you  women  a  lifetime  of  toil 

To  follow  the  style,  and  flirt; 
Better  spend  your  energies  doing  good, 

Or  mending  your  husband's  shirt. 


I2O  Home  Ballads. 

There  is  only  one  style  where  you  go  at  last  — 
One  style  for  the  rich  and  poor! 

And  the  hearse  is  waiting  for  all  of  us  — 
It  may  be  close  to  our  door. 

Ye  love  to  gather  you  jewels  and  gold 

Of  curious,  rare  device; 
Should  you  own  no  glittering  gem,  what  loss, 

If  you  have  the  Pearl  of  Price. 

Fair  women!    your  elegant  styles  are  vain; 

Your  bodies  will  turn  to  dust; 
And  men,  the  treasures  you've  piled  so  high 

Will  soon  be  consumed  by  rust. 

Take  a  medium — for  the  Irishman  said 
"There  is  a  middle  extrame" — 

Not  hurry  and  worry  for  wealth  and  style — 
For  a  useless,  idle  dream. 

But,  oh!    there  are  treasures  that  never  fade  — 
One  style,  and  that  style  is  love; 

The  orders  are  filled  in  this  world  of  ours, 
And  they  will  be  cashed  above. 


Song  of  theTOno. 


I  COME  from  the  mystical  zones  of  earth  — 
The  banqueting  halls  of  Thunder; 
From  the  cradle  of  storm,  with  noise  and  mirth, 

I  mount  up  with  joy  and  wonder; 
I  blow,  and  I  blow,,  and  carry  the  snow, 

Piling  it  higher  and  higher, 
As  hither  I  come,  and  thither  I  go, 
Crazy  with  mirth  or  ire. 

Then  I  scale  the  hilltops  towering  high, 

I  scale  the  loftiest  mountain; 
I  scale  the  dumb  clouds,  and  I  touch   the   sky, 

And  play  with  the  flowing  fountain; 
I  moan  with  pain,  and  I  carry  the  rain 

Down  to  the  slumbering  city, 
And  I  patter  and  pour  on  roof  and  door, 

In  anger  or  in  pity. 


122  Home  Ballads. 

I  kiss  the  wet  sand  on  the  sweet  seaside, 

And  launch  on  the  tranquil  ocean; 
I  goad  her  bosom  to  anger,  and  ride 

On  Terror  amid  commotion; 
I  baffle  the  ships  that  are  out  at  sea, 

I  plague  the  mariner  toiling; 
And  tumble  their  freight  of  humanity 

Into  the  ocean  boiling. 

I  carry  the  clouds,  all  blackened  with  death, 

And  hurricane  on  my  shoulder; — 
I  moan  through  the  gorge  with  abated  breath, 

And  carve  my  name  on  the  boulder; 
I  blow  their  houses  out  into  the  street, 

I  toy  with  trees  of  the  wildwood; 
And  carry,  wherever  my  forces  meet, 

Terror  to  age  and  childhood. 

I  pause  and  blow,  breathing  softly  and  slow, 

Over  fields  of  grain  and  clover; 
Sweet  odors  I  bring  on  feathery  wing 

To  the  maiden  and  her  lover. 
But  I  come  from  the  mystical  zones  of  earth, 

The  banqueting  halls  of  Thunder; 
The  cradle  of  Storm  with  music  and  mirth 

I  rise  and  fly  from  under. 


Sunshine. 

GREET  the  golden  sunshine, 
Blessing  as  it  flies, 
Silently  and  swiftly, 

From  the  cloudless  skies; 
Like  the  vale  of  heaven, 

Mystically  bright, 
Fluttering  to  earthward, 
Dissipates  the  night. 

Falling  like  a  blessing 

On  the  leaf  and  flower; 
Lifting  up  the  dew-drop 

From  the  summer  bower; 
Wakes  the  joy  of  morning, 

Wakes  the  happy  bird; 
Harmony  and  gladness 

Everywhere  are  heard. 

Shine,  oh!    shine  upon  us, 
Till  all  discords  cease, 


124  Home  Ballads. 

And  the  earth  reposes 
In  the  arms  of  Peace! 

Shine!    oh,  shine  in  splendor 
From  thy  throne  above, 

Till  the  earth  is  circled 
In  the  arms  of  Love! 

Then  shine  on,  forever, 

And  forever  still! 
Haste  to  do  the  bidding 

Of  thy  Maker's  will, 
Haste  to  bless  His  creatures, 

As  thou  hast  before, 
And  shine  on  forever, 

And  forever  more! 


Angels'  Ui$it$. 


A    DREAM. 

DO  they  watch,  and  do  they  wait 
For  the  weal  of  mortals? 
Do  they  come  from  heaven's  gate 

E'en  to  death's  dim  portals? 
Do  the  angels  visit  men 

When  all  things  confuse  us? 

Do  they  come  to  help  us  when 

Friends  mistake,  misuse  us? 

Slumber  deep  the  eyelids  close, 

Welcome  to  the  weary; 
Tired  nature  could  repose, 

Though  the  night  hung  dreary; 
Thought  alone  was  wakeful,  still 

Would  escape  the  prisoned 
Mysteries  that  would  flit  and  thrill 

Through  the  brain  bedizened. 


126  Home  Ballads. 

Then  anon  the  darkness  sped, 

For  a  light  was  dawning; 
Through  the  room  a  radiance  shed, 

Brighter  far  than  morning; 
And  a  form  beside  me  stood  — 

Beautiful,  undying  — 
Pinions  poised,  as  though  he  would 

Soon  to  heaven  be  flying. 

As  I  -held  the  open  word,     ^ 

Trembling,  half  affrighted, 
How  my  very  soul  was  stirred, 

Comforted,  delighted! 
Hands  immortal,  unconstrained, 

Traced  each  verse  most  sweetly, 
And  immortal  tongue  explained 

All  to  me  completely. 

Drink,  my  soul!    thy  fill  of  light— 

Drink  thy  fill  of  pleasure! 
Grasp  the  sacred  boon  tonight — 

Grasp  the  golden  treasure! 
But  the  vision  tarries  not, 

Shadows  round  me  gather; 
Darkness  broods;  I  was,  methought, 

Dreaming  altogether. 


iBuarMan  Angels. 


"Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits,  sent  forth  to  minister  for  those 
who  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation?" — Paul. 


SPIRITS  are  light,  and  oft  repose 
On  piles  of  sunset  clouds  at  even, 
Or,  poised  in  air,  their  pinions  close, 

A  space  midway  'twixt  earth  and  heaven. 

There,  whether  good  or  whether  bad, 

Sent,  albeit,  by  God  or  devil, 
They  lure  us,  and  we  follow  glad 

The  path  we  choose,  for  good  or  evil. 

When  sickness,  pain  or  death  appears, 
The  good  ones  ever  round  us  hover — 

Shield  us  from  danger,  wipe  our  tears, 

Our  couch  of  pain  their  kind  wings  cover. 

They  soothe  our  grief;  guard  our  repose; 

They  wait  for  us  at  heaven's  portal, 
Thence  sent  to  minister  to  those 

Who  shall  be  heirs  of  life  immortal. 


128  Home  Ballads. 

And  oft,  when  Evil  throws  his  darts, 

With  thought  malign,  so  thick  around  us, 

Their  gentle  breathings  touch  our  hearts, 
Their   own  soft  wings,  forsooth,  surround  us. 

And  stronger  grow  the  chords  that  bind 
Our  willing  souls  to  the  Supernal, 

While  Hope  exults,  and  Faith  entwines 
Around  us  arms  of  Love  eternal. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  touch  of  Death 
From  fear  of  Sin  or  sinning  frees  us, 

In  arms  of  Love,  on  wings  of  Faith, 
They  bear  our  happy  souls  to  Jesus. 


Sonnet. 

IN  vain  we  seek  on  earth  to  find 
A  place  adapted  to  our  mind; 
There's  trouble  here,  annoyance  there, 
And  inconvenience  everywhere; 
While  blessings  that  are  so  mixed  up 
With  pain  in  every  human  cup 
Are  overlooked,  or  scarce  discerned, 
Sometimes  despised,  or  madly  spurned, 
Like  some  abominated  thing; 
And  so  away  on  magic  wing 
They  fly.     And,  when  they're  half  forgot, 
We  stop,  and  ponder,  and  relent, 
And  recognize  their  kind  intent, 

And  would  recall  them,  but  cannot. 
9 


Deferred. 

GHOSTS  of  the  past!    They're  buried;  let  them 
I  would  not  resurrect  them,  or  deny  [lie; 

But  that  "it  might  have  been"  in  days  gone  by. 

'Tis  over,  now;   and  patiently  I  wait 

Who  comes  to  welcome  me  at  heaven's  gate, 

And  claim  me  for  his  own  true  spirit's  mate. 

And  yet,  I  miss  the  genial  light  that  shone 
From  kindred  eyes,  so  fond,  into  my  own  — 
Miss  the  strong  arm,  and  grope  along  alone. 

Yet  not  alone;   for  lo!    a  cheering  ray 

Shines  o'er  my  path.     God  knoweth  still  my  way, 

And  angels  chant  to  me  from  day  to  day. 

'Tis  better  thus  to  be,  than  to  be  wed 

To  one  whose  eye  congenial  light  has  fled  — 

The  shadow  of  affection  cold  and  dead; 


Deferred.  131 

Or  to  a  drunkard,  knave,  or  fool,  or  all 

Combined  in  one.     Forsooth,  Fear's  carnival 

Would  hold  strange  revel  prone  beneath  Hate's  pall. 

So  may  it  be.     The  good  Lord  keep,  I  pray, 

Our  blighted  buds,  until  in  heaven's  day 

They  put  forth  bloom  that  ne'er  shall  fade  away. 


Houe. 

EVE  is  most  divinely  fair; 
Love  will  live  forever — 
Azure  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

Changing  never,  never. 
Oh,  my  Love,  thou  art  divine 

Essence  pure  of  heaven; 
Never  rapture  such  as  mine 
Unto  mortal  given! 

But  my  Love  is  dead,  is  dead} 

Wrap  him  in  a  shadow; 
Smooth  a  pillow  for  his  head 

In  the  silent  meadow. 
Cease  my  heart  to  thrill,  to  thrill, 

Break  not  with  your  sorrow; 
Love  is  Love,  immortal  still, 

Love  will  rise  tomorrow! 


Color. 

COLOR  is  beauty,  and  beauty 
Sits  on  the  leaf  and  flower, 
Clothing  the  trees  of  the  forest, 
Draping  the  summer  bower. 

Seeking  the  hills  and  the  valleys, 
The  fields  and  the  gardens  fair; 

Touching  them  in  her  gladness, 
She  traces  her  image  there. 

Fair  green  is  the  dearest  color 
God  to  nature  has  given; 

But  green  is  only  a  shadow 
Of  verdant  hills  in  heaven. 

Red  loves  the  tulips  and  roses, 
Red  is  the  color  of  love; 

But  red  is  only  the  token 
Of  perfected  hues  above. 


134  Home  Ballads. 

The  yellow  that  gilds  the  sunset 
Light  and  beauty  has  given, 

Is  only  a  faded  picture 

Of  brighter  scenes  in  heaven. 

Tomorrow  our  eyes  will  open, 
And  the  clod  will  fall  away; 

New  tints  then  shall  gild  the  dawning 
Of  a  never-ending  day. 


r 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


PS 


nhite  - 


317h   Home  ballads. 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS3174  .W5832H 
V 


•  ••      •  •    •  •       ||     || 

L  009  618  366  0 


PS 

3171 
W5832h 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA  001  228  007  9 


•  ,  :  | 

.  . ... 


